


When you are not looking

by Morbid_lizard



Category: Fae Tales - not_poignant, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, sigh..., unrequited crush/love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbid_lizard/pseuds/Morbid_lizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwyn ap Nudd, albeit unaware of it, has left more than just one soldier under his command smitten. He is, afterall, the unbeaten general of the Seelie court, a warrior easily admired and feared by all. </p><p>This is the story of one of those soldiers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When you are not looking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Game Theory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/915296) by [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/pseuds/not_poignant). 



> Just for clarity, Cadr is an original character I made up to play around with Gwyn. He does not exist in canon nor will probably ever be seen interacting with Gwyn if not in my silly writing endeavours : p  
> I hope you'll still like him as much as I did when writing this U.U
> 
> P.S: I wrote this months ago after years of not writing so...be...understanding. Lol. Not my best work but hey I tried! l: D

Back when still young, hardly a pup really, Cadr thought the name his mother (bless her soul) had chosen was an odd pick for the runt of the litter. Cowardly wouldn't even start to cover what a fearful little thing he was, and as he stands in line, waiting for the general to survey the new possible recruits for the Seelie court's army, he thinks that perhaps applying for the role might have been indeed a foolish thing for someone of his likes.  
Soldiers of any age and rank stand in line after line and Gwyn, frightening Gwyn, beautiful Gwyn, walks among them, straight back and arms stiff in a rigid pose. He observes the fae before him, gaze cold and scrutinizing, and when he finally reaches the last row of warriors , where Cadr all but shuffled into, the soldier can't help but let out a soft growl of threath at the general's approach. Thick, heavy waves of drao'cht come off of Gwyn, rough and sharp against his sensitive nose, and as he bares his fangs, challenging out of instinct , he knows he has signed up for his doom.

The growl dies on his lips as soon as it started, a pitiful most embarrassing whine taking its place; he clears his voice, ashamed, averts his gaze from the general in a show of submission, but what is done is done and he hopes, as pathetic as that sounds, that whatever comes next will be quick and merciful, for he knows disrespect is punished most harshly in the army. What he doesn't expect however is a callous, yet surprisingly gentle hand on his hair. There's a scratch behind his ear, a placating gesture, and even though later that night he knows he won't be chosen, is anything but ready to be one of Gwyn's trusted companions, he swears under his breath that although he's not now, he's going to be. He'll train, he'll work hard, he will be someone the golden general will be proud to call a subordinate.

One year later, when he feels his status changed from underfae to court as he joins the ranks of Gwyn's army, all he thinks about are that warm hand over his hair and that small reassuring smile meant only for him to see.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The first time Gwyn slams him against the bark of a dead tree, dried leaves showering them at the harsh impact, he all but gives in to the assault. Blood crusted gloved fingers rip off his armor as if it were made of paper, and Cadr finds he's partly thankful to be on the victorious side, that he didn't have to face the beast that Gwyn is in battle but fight along with him instead; the general is a fury to be reckoned, a monster disguised as a magnificent yet merciless warrior, but still he won't ever kill his own soldiers, no matter how strong his cravings after a bloodshed.

To take them so brutally that some **do** end on the verge of death though, that is a whole other story.  
The smell of blood, of charred remnants of what once was the opposing army, of sweat and **death** is intoxicating, and to Cadr's surprise, when Gwyn enters him roughly with not even the luxury of saliva slicked fingers to stretch him open, he cries out not in quite so much anguish as in pleasure, strong arms holding him in place to prevent an escape that he knows he's never going to attempt.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He watches Gwyn train against odd artificial warriors. The general had a mage create them for him to unleash his strenght on. He watches, first in secret but then deliberately when he realizes that the the other one won't care if he has an audience or not. Blonde curls stick unpleasantly to a sweat covered forehead, and for a moment Cadr is reminded of the one time he got fucked, dry and unrelenting trusts ripping him apart and yet leaving him still wanting, against the corpse of a bird fae who met their end under Gwyn's blunt sword.

As he engages with the lifeless warriors, Gwyn carries out his strikes the way he approaches anything else in life, abrupt and efficient, and Cadr wonders if perhaps there's more to him than the cold exterior he often presents to him and the other soldiers under his orders, and the brutal beast he instead becomes on a battlefield. If that strenght, that harshness with which he delivers his fatal blows, that _passion_ , does only ever come to surface when he fights. He thinks it a pity, for Gwyn positively glows at the mention of an upcoming battle, a duel, a spar even, and that only ever makes him more handsome to anyone lucky enough to witness the change in his features, if only for a brief moment. Does Gwyn ever show that side to anyone else, he wonders, does he ever share with anyone but his soldiers whatever it is that hides deep in him and only ever finds freedom when unleashed in battle?

The training continues for hours and hours on end, until it's obvious the general is continuing out of pure sheer will and stubborness, exhaustion making his muscles twitch ever so often. He beats the warriors, is beaten by them, almost succumbs, and when Cadr feels the genuine impulse to just up and go aid him, Gwyn lifts his sword and slashes through them in one terrible, powerful move, putting an effective end to a training which stopped being such a long time before. He then stands in the middle of the training grounds, panting, trying to catch his breath, and when he falters, tries to move but cannot quite manage, Cadr makes up his mind. He lifts himself off of the rock he has been lounging onto, approaches the man with not so much as a murmured “Let me” and gently slides an arm under Gwyn's armpits to keep him upright, careful not to meet the other one's gaze least he be reprimanded. When he feels no resistance whatsoever as he pulls Gwyn along to where he knows are the other fae's rooms though, he relaxes a bit, unaware of the confused but thankful look the general directs him.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

One day, it is barely Autumn, he is strolling down a low-lit path in the forest surrounding the outer circles of the court. He threads, paws crunching red and yellow and brown leaves, with abandon and mirth, for when he is in his dog form he sheds all sorts of composed attitude, of restraint and affectation. He is an animal, a wild creature on the hunt. He digs his snout under a mound of earth, scratches at the entrance of a long abandoned mole den, sniffs at the remnants of what once used to be a squirrel. He rarely gets the chance to enjoy such things – to be a court soldier, to train under Gwyn, means that most of his time is employed learning new techniques, refining what he already knows, work harder and harder in preparation of the upcoming threath.

As he moves down a slope, claws preventing him from thumbling down the ripid descent, he abruptly comes to a stop. There is whispers, a faint yet strangely familiar laugh in the distance, though the sound itself he's quite sure he's never heard before. He moves a step forward, uncertain, then lowers himself to the ground and advances catiously in the direction of the noise. When he's eventually faced with a dozing Gwyn, back against the trunk of a tree while a bunch of forest creatures surrounds him, keep him company as he rests, he realizes that the familiar sound was none other than his general's voice. He stares, watches a while more the scene before him, then turns on his tracks and leaves: to get to witness that Gwyn **can** be this way is enough for him, and he spends the following hour chasing after a fox, barking in glee.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

One week before the Summer Solstice, Gwyn's mother Crielle takes charge of the court to organize a ball.

Cadr knows of Crielle, the elegant, mesmerizing queen of the court, queen not in title but in reputation and powers. Remembers the first time he stood before her, in line with the other soldiers as she surveyed the new recruits out of pure caprice, the way she not so much as glanced at him, with barely contained distaste at his looks, at what he IS ( formerly an underfae dog, now still just a dog in her eyes). She is the jewel of the court, a beauty to behold. Everyone looks up to her, hangs upon her every word, craves a nod of approval. No one would deny her anything, would not even dream of it. Not even the king.

The event is going to be grand, something to remember, and she all but trusts unto Gwyn and a bunch of his soldiers to find a certain type of flower that grows only ever once in two hundred years, in a crevice deep below the glacial lands of Aid'uin. She claims it'll be the perfect touch for her dress, a decoration best suited for this occasion, to say farewell to the past seasons and welcome summer; that the flowers are so rare, so delicate and fragile that Gwyn's light might irreparably compromise them, so that he “just teleport” to the location is out of the question. The quest in itself is senseless, a ridicolous endeavour, but they leave anyway, carrying bundles of furcoats and heavy mantles on their backs as the rays of a particularly merciless sun beat onto them.

It takes two days to reach the glacier, and at least another good three hours to climb down into the darkness where they were told the flowers are supposed to be. The descent is dangerous, slippery; at least twice Cadr almost risks to fall and so his companions, with the exception of Gwyn who seems to be much more at ease climbing down the cold dephts, and he probably indeed is (everyone knows he's apt to such quests, that he often leaves on his own for long travels to unknown lands no one else would think to explore). They reach the bottom, and they are surrounded by a pitch black darkness. The cold is so stark, so harsh, that Cadr wonders how anything could ever even _grow_ down here.

It is up to Esus, the only fire elemental in the group, to lit whatever awaits them – they do not ask the general, they know all too well his reluctance to use his powers although he hardly ever voices such dislike, and they know better than to expect him to offer- and when Esus' flames make the place brighter, turn it ablaze, everyone's breath catches: before them are hundreds, thousand of shimmering plants that appear as if made of delicate threads of ice. Small flowers that glisten and refract the flame's light, a rainbow in each gem-like petal, each a small radiant work of art. The sight alone is stunning, and Cadr now understands, he **understands,** and feels shame for thinking this quest a stupid endeavour, thinks this must be why he was born underfae and was never expected to know such things, would never even have seen or dreamt of them if he hadn't sworn loyalty to Gwyn and to the Seelie court.

That Crielle would know of this and that she sent for _them_ of all people to procure them...perhaps he was wrong in judging her. No, not perhaps, he **was** wrong.

They all kneel among the precious, ethereal blossoms, pluck them in the most gentle way. If they were tired before, they do not show it. The sight of the luminous buds is a balm to their spirits , and Cadr knows they all somehow feel reinvigorated, the way he himself does as well. They fill a chest with them, leave it to Piron (an ice elemental) to keep them safe and preserved as they climb back to the surface. The travel back to the court is done in companiable silence, as opposed to the sour moods that accompanied them in the beginning, and Cadr feels rewarded, feels honored that he's a part of this group.

It takes almost three days for them to go back – they have to be careful, the flowers are delicate and Piron can only use his magic so much without exhausting his powers, for even if strong it still takes a big portion of them to keep an everexhisting crust of ice to envelope the chest, to keep it frozen against the warmer weather. At their arrival, the court is anything but quiet; servants run from hall to hall, carrying trays of food, decorations made out of glass and gold, curtains to match the renuvated look of the palace for the upcoming feast. Cadr feels excited; he trails behind Gwyn, keeps an eye on Piron who, even though tries to hide it, tries to appear not as tired as he is, falters in his steps, drags his feet in pure exhaustion while clutching the chest with their valuable cargo. They are made to sit right out of Crielle's quarters, in one of the innermost circles of the court, and there they wait. Fat drops of sweat roll down Piron's brow, trail down his temples, but he purses his lips, keeps the spell in place until they will eventually be released by Crielle herself. Gwyn keeps a hand on his arm, looks nothing but grateful for his efforts, and Cadr admires the stoic warrior, wishes he one day will be as good as him.

It takes three hours for a servant to walk up to them, lean close to Gwyn to murmur a message meant only for him to hear. The general's face twists, there's something akin to confusion on his face, then resignation. Piron is trembling, clutches the chest as if for dear life, and when Gwyn turns to him, looks at him, he seems to understand something that doesn't need to be said, and lets go of the chest with a shaky sigh. They are dismissed, the lot of them, told they were too late, that Crielle could not wait any further. That she found a more appropriate way to adorn her gown, to make her figure shine. That a bunch of mere flowers, in retrospect, would not make justice to her vision.

The following day Cadr watches the flowers they all gathered with such care wither and die, the warmer climate much too harsh for them to endure without Piron's elemental magic to keep them alive, and he never thought he could hate someone the way he hates Crielle in this very moment, but he realizes there really is a first time for everything.

 

(That evening, right before the ball, he turns into a dog and sneaks into the quarters of Crielle's seamstress to piss all over the “queen”'s newly decorated outfit.)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It only takes so much. It is evening, one like any other, and Cadr joins the other soldiers to have a drink after a long and hard day of training. “It's too much for you” they say, “Dogs can't hold their liquor well!”, yet his glass is refilled over and over and inhebriated laughter resounds through the tent. When Rowain leans in, slides an arm around his neck to draw him close and whispers in a much too loud tone the filthiest joke Cadr has ever heard, he barks in delight. When Uther tells once again the tale of how he shot with a single arrow a rabbit and a wolf, ran them through in one go, he's the first to clap, even though he has heard the story a thousand times and more. It is an evening of much needed respite, and he lets himself drown in it, lets it take away the worries that otherwise will come plague him during the day.

He must have dozed off at some point, for when he comes back to his senses, only a handful of soldiers are left awake, the rest either slumped against an equally drunk companion or face down onto the ground, snoring as gracefully as only a soldier can do (which is to say hardly at all). He stretches, stiffens briefly as he feels a joint crack, rubs his neck as he yawns and tries to shake off the stupor the alcohol brought on him. He's about to leave and go back to his own tent – it is still some time late (or early?) in the morning, for outside he can see it is still dark- when he hears the general's name mentioned. His ears perks up, he all but turns in curiosity: he's never heard talks of the general outside of the morning routine they all go through, he's still new to the gossip that goes around the rows of the army, and he thinks this might be the chance to know more about Gwyn. Gwyn, who is ever so reserved, ever so mysterious. Gwyn, who obviously enjoys the company of his army more than that of any other member of the court, yet when invited to spend time with them stays by himself, glowers and sits stiffly as if feeling out of place, as if never able to find somewhere to fit. Gwyn, who sometimes watches them drink and joke with a look that Cadr can only describe as longing, but who is ever the first to leave to go back to his own tent to no one's notice (but he notices, he always does, and wonders why and doesn't know).

He approaches the group of soldiers, sits eagerly when two of them move to make room for the newcomer. Mal is talking of the “battle” they all took part in a week ago, the General at the lead of their squad as they went to fight a hoard of trolls and goblin that had settled without as much of a thought in a swamp that had been inhabited for centuries by a nest of pixies. To call it a battle back then had sounded like a joke (a skirmish would be a more appropriate word, really), yet at the pixies' summon, Gwyn hadnt hesitated to move to their aid, taking with him a handful of warriors to sedate the conflict that might result.

The general's cousin Efnisien, to everyone's surprise, had joined them as well.

Cadr had thought it a noble gesture at the time, had thought that for a court fae aside from Gwyn to want to help a group of pixies was but an admirable deed. What he hadn't accounted for, hadn't even quite fathomed might happen, was for Efnisien's unusually cruel streak to be directed at the pixies as Gwyn and the other warriors tried to reason their way with the goblins and trolls with words at first, and then the blunt side of their swords once reasoning with them had proven to be useless.

He remembers still Gwyn's horrified face when only too late he had realized his cousin was nowhere to be seen as they sedated the turbolent scuffle that the goblins and trolls had put up not to leave.

And then, Efnisien had approached them, a viciously sharpened bloodied iron rod in hand, and had smugly retorted that the problem was solved, for if an argument ends up lacking one of the two parties involved, it can't really continue no more. Wasn't that the easiest solution to the matter? Why waste time with trolls and goblins, when the weakest and definetely more easily disposable half was right there for them to subdue?

Later it had all been reduced to a small casualty, an unexpected happenstance. Pixies caught in the crossfire of a much too heated conflict, and who'd ever blame Efnisien, who was only there to help? A minor tragedy, in the greater scheme of things.

Cadr shuffles his feet, sniffles uncomfortably. Why would anyone want to talk about that, of all things? Why ruin such a pleasant evening, why recall something no one would rather think of?

Mal is particularly talkative, his tongue loosened by whatever last he drunk, and he continues his speech. “I think...Don't you think, Efnisien and the general, they are one of a kind, aren't they? When the general is on the battlefield, with his sword raised and that look -you know that look he gets?- you could hardly tell him from his cousin. Why, one would think them brothers if they didn't know better, a terrifying sight to behold! Perhaps it was not so much of an accident as something he allowed his cousin to do, that thing with the pixies. What one wouldn't do for family, you know?”

_He remembers still Gwyn's horrified face..._

He tastes blood, feels the crack of a bone as his fangs sink further in, and only when strong hands pull him away, drag him with brutal strenght off of Mal, he realizes what he's tasting is the soldier's arm, a chunk of meat still stuck in his mouth. He snarls, barely registers the shocked looks everyone is throwing him, and when he eventually spits out the bloodied bit of flesh, when he calms down just enough so that whomever is holding him back can drag him outside, only then it downs on him that it is Gwyn, looking down at him in dismay, in utter disbelief.

His face burns, he feels tears sting right at the corner of his eyes, and he curses under his breath, still tastes the fae blood, bitter and sharp against his palate.

 _Such a stupid dog_.

It doesn't help that he won't answer , won't give the reason why he did such a thing, deliberately attacked a comrade; he mumbles something about honor (doesn't say whose, doesn't want to specify, as if that could ever be an excuse), but it is obviously not enough for him to be spared solitary confinement. Perhaps that will help him calm down, clear his head.

The way Gwyn stared at him, dissappointment stark on his face, haunts him, torments him more than the punishment could ever do, and once Cadr is released, can go back to his daily duties, it takes a long time for the other soldiers to accept him among their group again, to stop shooting him guarded looks. He finds that he can't bring himself to care.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He always thought he'd die a honourable death, something people would recount around a fire once he'd be long gone. That he'd die protecting the general, or defending a companion from a fatal blow. Anything but this.

Instead, he stands there, battle still raging as his guts spill out from a gaping hole across his abdomen. He presses both hands to the wound, tries to keep in what little there is left to spill out, falls to his knees as he feels life slip through his fingers faster than his court fae healing can mend the damage. There is a dull throbbing in his ears, he doesn't even feel pain, the shock is too great. He lets out a shuddering breath, and conciousness leaves him.

Much later – or maybe it was only a moment, he can't even tell- he feels himself getting lifted off the field, lifeless limbs hanging limply at his sides as he is carried to safer grounds. Rough hands touch his face, his neck, try to find a much too feeble pulse. He knows those hands, has wished for their touch so often, and to be aware that they are the last thing he ever feels brings a little peace to his soul.

_There is no regret. There is **no** regret. Although..._

He lifts a shaky hand to Gwyn's curls, tries to grasp at them, wants to wipe a smudge of dirt off of his face, but Death has never been a patient mistress, and when he raises his gaze one last time before darkness claims him forever all he sees are his general's clear blue eyes looking at him, only at him, ever at him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Pia is ever so generous in letting me borrow her characters to have fun, so please go and read her stuff if you haven't already (THING I DEFINETELY DOUBT)!!!
> 
> GO GO GO ==> http://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/


End file.
